


Date Night.

by captnalbatr0ss



Series: The Captain and his Quartermaster [9]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7836193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnalbatr0ss/pseuds/captnalbatr0ss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rafe usually makes the dinner reservations, but this time it’s up to Sam. Things don’t go quite like he thought they would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Date Night.

* * *

 It was early, too early—Sam groaned when Rafe’s alarm went off, rolling onto his stomach as soon as Rafe slipped out of his arms.

“I thought you didn’t have to this morning,” he grumbled, grabbing Rafe’s pillow and crushing it against his head.

“No, I don’t have to next week. This week is all early mornings, or don’t you remember?”

“Obviously not.” Sam tugged the covers over his head as well.

Rafe would’ve opened the curtains, but it was still dark out. He padded to the bathroom, turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature of the water while he brushed his teeth.

He stepped under the spray, closing his eyes. It was hot, almost too hot—just how Rafe liked it in the mornings. A burst of heat always seemed to energize him, and it made it that much easier to keep things short, quick.

He lathered, and rinsed, his mind already drifting to the day ahead of him. The phone calls he knew he needed to make, and at least one meeting to attend. A video conference just after lunch, and a few items of business to approve—company policy changes, legalities, but all minor things. And something—something else…

_But what is it…?_

_Oh._

He dried off quickly, wrapped the towel around his waist before returning to Sam, who remained face down on the bed.

“Sam.”

Rafe pursed his lips when Sam didn’t so much as stir.

“Come on. I know you’re awake.”

Nothing.

“Damnit, I— _Sam, don’t!_ ”

Sam flipped over abruptly, leaned up, and tugged Rafe back into bed, startling his smaller half.

“How’d you know I was awake?” Sam grinned even as Rafe scowled, begrudgingly shifting to be more comfortable on top of Sam, whose eyes lit up at the faint blush creeping across Rafe’s cheeks, up to his ears. “Well look at you, you’re blushing.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Mm. So how’d you know? C’mon.”

Rafe shook his head, less than amused. “You— You just  _breathe_  different.”

Sam’s eyebrows raised, surprised. “You pay attention to my—”

“Oh, and you don’t?” Rafe glared, easily thinking of a dozen different things Sam had learned about him by observation alone.

“Sure, I just—” Noting Rafe’s expression, Sam threw on a more serious face, the equivalent of a white flag. “You know what, forget it. Anyways, what is it?”

Rafe wished the color would leave his face faster, and he cursed the shiver that Sam’s fingers—now gliding slowly up and down his sides—sent rushing through him. Damn, but that man could be distracting. “What?”

“You came to talk to me about somethin’. What’s up?”

Rafe furrowed his brow, thinking hard. “Um…”

_Calls. Meetings. Work— and…_

“Dinner.”

“Dinner? But we just woke up!”

“Very funny.” Rafe closed his eyes, nearly moaned when Sam’s hands grazed across his shoulders, and he made himself lift off Sam, sitting up. “It’s date night.”

_Date night._

Sam had worked his ass off to establish a consistent night out, and had worked even harder still to get Rafe to  _call_  it ‘date night’. A blanket term that always involved dinner, and sometimes involved a movie, or something like that. And at first it had sounded so awkward when Rafe said it, but now it rolled off his tongue almost as naturally as, “Sam, you’re being ridiculous.”

Sam almost always let Rafe pick the place. He didn’t care where they went—he just enjoyed spending time with Rafe, watching him relax and have a little fun.

Sam beamed— _ah, date night._  “So it is! Where we goin’ tonight, baby?”

Rafe shook his head. “That’s the thing. I forgot to make reservations, and I’ve got a full schedule today at work. Think you can handle it this time?”

Sam felt something stir, the beginnings of a sort of panic, but he quickly choked it back, nodding instead.

“Sure babe. I got us covered.”

“Great.”

Rafe started to stand, paused. He raked his fingers through Sam’s hair slowly, deliberately, smiling when Sam closed his eyes.

“You know,” he said, and this time he did stand, lazily stretching—and Sam bit the inside of his cheek, appreciating the way Rafe’s still-wet hair fell over his eyes. “I’m actually running a little ahead of schedule this morning.”

Sam didn’t catch the last part, too busy letting his mind wander—Rafe and his hot showers, he always came out so  _pink_ from the heat, and so soft— “Mm, sorry—come again?”

Rafe’s eyes gleamed, full of mischief as he reached down, deliberately dropping the towel from around his hips. “I don’t know about  _again_ , but I think we have time to come at least once.”

* * *

 

It was nearly an hour after Rafe left for work before Sam managed to drag himself out of bed. Still sleepy, and now freshly sated, it was indeed a challenge.

But he had reservations to make.

_Shit._

And there was the pang of anxiety again.

Sam mulled it over the entire time he was in the shower, running through the list of places he knew. There weren’t many—he couldn’t even remember the names of most of the places Rafe had taken him before. He’d never paid attention, not really. Not that the food wasn’t worth remembering, but they all ran together.

The common thread was that they were all high-class and exactly the kind of restaurant a man like Rafe would pick.

 _Trouble is_ , Sam thought.  _I’m not a man like Rafe._

_Shit._

Sam never really felt specifically less-than around Rafe—for all of the joking, the teasing, Sam knew Rafe didn’t really care. He’d roll his eyes, but he wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed.

And Sam  _knew_  that.

Still, every now and again, something would come up—almost always something trivial. Like picking a place to go for fucking date night—and it would leave Sam painfully aware of just how… _different_  Rafe was, compared to him.

And, at times like that,  _different_  felt a whole lot like  _better_. Felt a whole lot like _what is he even doing with a guy like me? _And  _what am I gonna do when he comes to his senses?_

“A’right,” Sam said, staring himself down as he towel dried his hair. “Don’t fuck this up, Drake. Dinner reservations. How hard can it be?”

_Pretty hard, apparently._

Sam spent most of the morning and early afternoon on Rafe’s iPad, searching for the best restaurants, reading Yelp reviews, scouring menus. He even found a few winners—but time and time again, Sam encountered the same issue when calling— _not enough notice; no reservations available; what about next week instead, sir?_

Sam was getting flustered. Sitting on the sofa, surrounded by scraps of paper with numbers, names of who he’d talked to, his best guesses for times all scribbled out as he kept meeting dead ends.

He was tempted to give up, settle on somewhere less— well, something more—

_Shit._

But his mind kept circling back to Rafe, and his tailored suits, and expensive wines. Rafe, who could dive right into the deep end with the rest of the social elite, while Sam hugged the wall in the shallows.

“C’mon, Sammy, you got this.”

He took a break, retreating to the safety of the back porch, and he smoked two cigarettes before returning to the task.

 _Finally_  he struck gold—a really high-end seafood place that Sam thought looked suitably fancy, at least in the pictures on the website. Based on the online reviews, it was tricky to get a reservation at all, and—“You’re in luck!”—they’d had a cancellation. Sam was able to make a reservation for two at seven.

“Thank God,” Sam sighed as he hung up, flopping back on the sofa.

He opened his messages—found Rafe.

_“dinners at 7”_

A few minutes later, came Rafe’s reply—  _“That’s great, thanks.”_

Sam grinned, proud of himself. He settled back against the cushions, hoping Rafe had a few minutes to spare.

_“whatcha doin?”_

For a moment, Sam thought Rafe wouldn’t have time to answer, but then—

_“Conference call. Embarrassing. Should have video, but something’s fucked up. Got IT on it, but we can’t reschedule. So it’s all black screens, I’m afraid.”_

_“shit babe. hope everything else is goin better”_

_“Let’s just”_ —

Sam frowned. _“?”_

_“Sorry. Hit send too soon — Let’s just say I’m really looking forward to dinner.”_

_“to… what?”_

_“Dinner?”_

_“??”_

_“Really?”_

_“?????”_

_“Fine.” — “I’m really looking forward to DATE NIGHT.”_

Sam laughed, glad to feel a bit of his reservations-related anxiety dissipate.

_“daaaate night, that’s right baby! ;)”_

_“You’re an asshole.”_

_“but you love me though”_

_“Yeah, well you love me, too.”_

_“hell yeah i do. get back to work ya slacker”_

* * *

 

Sam was shrugging on his jacket when he heard Rafe’s car door slam.

The rest of the afternoon had gone by fast, at least as far as Sam was concerned. Between deliberating on the right pants, the right jacket—tie or no tie, which shoes, and  _do I have to wear fucking cufflinks?_ —Sam felt lucky to be ready on time at all.

This hadn’t been a problem, not in the beginning of their relationship, when Sam had two suits to his name, one black, one navy—although Rafe hated the navy suit and it had gone missing almost as soon as Sam had moved in, never to be seen again—but the longer they were together, the more nice things Sam seemed to accumulate. And the clothes, shoes, they weren’t just for Christmas or birthdays. Often they seemed to simply appear, as if the items on Sam’s side of the closet multiplied on their own.

And now, Sam struggled with all his options unless Rafe was there, selecting each piece for him.

But he felt moderately confident in his selection, and he’d spent a bit of extra time on his hair, and the whole time his inner mantra was  _‘don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up’._

He heard the front door open, close, and soon after, Rafe’s footfalls on the stairs. He turned as the bedroom door opened, smiling—smile fading as he saw how tired Rafe looked.

“Hey—”

“Christ, what a day,” Rafe sighed, stepping into Sam’s arms when they were opened to him.

Sam wrapped his arms around Rafe, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry babe.”

He felt Rafe take a deep breath, give Sam’s waist a firm squeeze before he pulled back, resting his hands on Sam’s chest.

“Look at you. What’s the occasion?”

Sam tilted his head, raising a brow. “Ah—”

The anxiety was back, had started to build again as he got dressed, worrying that the restaurant wouldn’t be good enough, or that something could go wrong, and now—

_Did he forget? Does he even still wanna go? Shit. Shit shit shit—_

Sam’s eyes darted around nervously. “—dinner?”

“Dinner?” Rafe’s tight smirk, the slight lift as he angled his chin up, and his eyes—tired, but playful.

Sam’s face lit up, relieved, and he leaned down to kiss Rafe softly. “Sorry. Date night.”

“If I have to, you have to. Fair’s fair.” Rafe gripped the lapels of Sam’s jacket and tugged him down again, letting the feel of Sam’s lips, the taste, steal away the tension in his shoulders. “Give me one second.”

“You got it, babe.” Sam checked his watch. “Should I go start the car?”

“Sure. I’ll be right down.”

Rafe stepped into their bathroom, splashed some water on his face once he heard Sam open, then close the door to the garage.

He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, gripping the edges of the sink tight.

_What a day…_

_What an understatement._

The tension was returning. The embarrassment with the conference call, with the video feed not working. Fucking humiliating.  _I hate being fucking humiliated._

_Stop._

_Leave it._

Rafe opened his eyes, stared at his reflection. “Leave it at work. Leave it. At. Work.”

His knuckles were white, nearly the same color as the porcelain to which he currently grounded himself. It was hard for him, to reign in his temper, especially when it’d been on simmer nearly all day. And it was harder still when he was tired—and he was, unusually so.

_When I find out who fucked up that video feed I’m going to—_

_No._

_—rip them—_

_Stop._

_—apart—_

_Stop._

_Think about Sam, and dinner—no, fuck it, date night—stop this and get yourself under—_

_Control._

Rafe abruptly let go of the sink, shaking his head. He ran a comb through his hair, smoothed it back once more, quickly ducked into the closet.

“Sam. Sam had on…” His eyes narrowed as he pulled up the image, closed his eyes and saw it clearly behind his eyelids—his hands on Sam’s lapels, their bodies pressed together, and their lips. Sam smelled like cigarettes, and the cologne Rafe’d got him for his birthday, and the suit was— “Ah, yes. Ok, let’s see.”

It took Rafe only a few minutes to change clothes, opting for a suit that complemented Sam’s. He knew Sam wouldn’t notice, but he had dressed so sharply—Rafe imagined wherever he’d made reservations, it was at least not _in_ appropriate to coordinate.

Rafe sighed, giving himself one final glance in the mirror.

_Better._

Truth be told, he’d almost counted on Sam taking advantage of being in charge—to pick somewhere  _Sam_  really wanted to go.

In fact, Rafe had spent the better part of the day wondering if Sam would pick somewhere with a really good hamburger. Sam frequented several places that served burgers, and Rafe had become alarmingly attached to them.

Still, Rafe felt a strange sort of warmth in his chest—Sam had put what he thought Rafe wanted over what he’d pick for himself.

And so, Rafe mustered up all the energy he could find in his reserves, threw on his best smile, and met Sam at the car.

* * *

 

Sam sat across from Rafe, fidgeting in his seat as he watched Rafe read over the menu. He wished he could see Rafe’s face better—he hadn’t even glanced at his own menu, he was too busy waiting. Waiting for the indication, Rafe’s tell.

He’d seen it before, watched for it every time. There would be the smallest shift in Rafe’s posture, in the way he sat at the table. The slope of his shoulders, what he did with his hands. Little things on their own, but together they were enough to let Sam know that Rafe was comfortable, that he was pleased.

Sam hadn’t seen it yet, not even one. And he couldn’t get a good look, not while Rafe had his head buried in the menu, but the few glimpses he  _had_  caught, the tightness was still there, in his jaw, his lips, and a sort of unease behind his eyes.

_He doesn’t like it._

_Shit._

_Shit shit shit sh—_

“Sam?”

Sam blinked, realized he’d dropped his gaze to the table. “Huh?”

“Are you okay?”

_Who me? Fine—just fine. But are you okay? ‘cause if you’re not, then me neither—_

“Sure. Why?”

Rafe set down his menu, leaning closer. “You seem…tense. Aren’t I usually the one who’s tense?” A tight smile.

Sam offered a chuckle, but it was still strained.

Rafe sat back again, regarding Sam a moment longer before deciding to let it go. “What are you going to get?”

“Uh…”

Sam picked up his menu. Finally. He opened it, skimming the list. He’d learned to avoid checking for prices—it never mattered to Rafe, but it always affected what Sam ordered. This time, though, Sam was in luck; no prices were even listed.

Sam stared at the menu, unsure. “I dunno, haven’t decided yet.”

Rafe frowned as he watched Sam, concerned. He seemed on edge, sort of flustered. Rafe started to reach across the table, lay a hand on Sam’s, when their waiter appeared.

Sam sighed, focused on Rafe, who dealt with the waiter. The ease with which he put on a smile—although Sam knew how fast it could disappear. His tone was polite, but curt. Friendly enough, without encouraging any added chit-chat.

Sam had never been one for fine dining, not really. He’d spent most of his life eating whatever came along. When he was young, with Nathan, they ate what they could, and they weren’t picky. And in prison—well, in prison he’d had no choice in the matter anyway. It was still a bit strange to him, to consider food as a form of entertainment, but there was something different about it with Rafe.

With Rafe  _specifically_.

Sam enjoyed the sound of Rafe’s voice as he ordered wines, ordered things that seemed far too complicated to be worth it. Or things that were a mouthful—

“Let’s start with the soy glazed brussels sprouts with bacon.”

“Very good, sir. And to drink?”

“Your Domaine Dujac Pinot Noir, what year?”

“I believe it is a 2011, sir.”

“That’ll be fine, thank you.”

“Of course, if you’ll excuse me.”

Rafe resumed reading the menu—he always  _breathed_  the words as he read them, soundlessly, and watching the slight movement of Rafe’s lips was something Sam enjoyed immensely.

“It all sounds good,” Rafe said, finally setting his menu down again.

Sam frowned, opened his mouth to say something but was cut off again by their waiter, who sat two glasses down, uncorked the wine. Once Rafe gave a small nod, the waiter poured it before disappearing again.

Rafe picked up his glass, leaning back in his chair. He sipped the wine, and though he faced Sam, his gaze fell just over Sam’s shoulder and his attention was somewhere distant.

_Shit._

Sam took a deep breath, scooting his glass out of the way to lean forward. “Hey, Rafe?”

Rafe blinked, slow, and his eyes drifted Sam’s direction, stopped when they found Sam’s looking back at him.

“You, ah… You don’t wanna be here, do you?”

Sam watched the change in Rafe’s eyes, subtle, from tired indifference to surprise, from surprise to apology.

“Sam—”

“You can tell me. C’mon…” Sam tried to offer an encouraging smile.

Rafe looked down at his glass, swirling the wine absently. “No. No, actually, I don’t.”

Sam had been expecting it, hell he’d  _insisted_  on hearing it, but it still stung. He ran his fingers through his hair, got halfway through before he remembered he’d bothered to slick it back, and then he quickly withdrew them, used his palm to smooth it all over again.

“I’m— shit, I’m sorry—babe, I thought this would be a good place, and—”

“Sam.”

“—I mean, it got loads of good reviews, and it seemed like somewhere you’d—”

“ _Sam_.”

Sam blinked, glanced around nervously, slid a bit lower in his seat. Rafe was watching him with a new expression now, and Sam wasn’t quite sure what to make of it—after admitting he didn’t like the restaurant, after the near-awkward silences that had littered the entire duration of their time at the table—after all of that, now Rafe looked relaxed.

Sam cleared his throat. “What?”

Rafe took another sip of wine, and then one more, color rising to his cheeks.

_Blushing?_

_Wait a minute, did I miss something?_

“Rafe?”

“Sam, you did great. You picked exactly the kind of restaurant I would have. I just—”

Sam furrowed his brow, held his breath.

Rafe laughed then, a soft and short and breathy thing, and Sam was amazed at how much tension faded, melted from Rafe’s face in that moment.

“I really want a hamburger.”

Sam blinked, completely caught off guard. “You what?”

Rafe lifted a shoulder as he set down his glass. When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost conspiratorial.

“I was thinking about that place you took me last month. It was, ah—it was crowded so we sat at the bar, on the end near the restrooms, and we overheard all of those bizarre conversations from the people waiting in line.”

Sam swallowed thickly. “I remember.”

“You ordered that tower of onion rings, and that burger too big to fit your mouth around, with bacon, and some kind of honey bourbon barbecue sauce, and—”

“I remember.” Sam’s voice was a bit huskier, his smile more mischievous.

Rafe shrugged, biting his lip as he watched Sam watching him.

“That’s what we should do, then.” Sam sat up straighter, smile widening.

“What? Sam— But  you went to so much trouble—” Rafe’s eyes softened.

“Yeah, okay, I won’t tell ya it wasn’t a royal pain in the  _ass_  making reservations for somewhere fancy with less than twelve hours notice, but Rafe,” Sam reached across the table, took Rafe’s hand, held it tight. “Hey, I only picked this place ‘cause I wanted to go somewhere you wanted to go. If you don’t wanna be here, then fuck this place, and let’s go get a burger.”

Rafe searched Sam’s eyes, grinning. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Rafe stood, straightening his jacket and digging in his wallet. He gestured to the bottle on their table, plenty left in it. “Grab the wine.”

“Yes dear.” Sam did his best to shove the cork back in enough to keep the wine from spilling.

People were glancing up at them now, not quite staring, but most certainly noticing. Rafe threw a few hundreds down on the table—

“ _Three hundred bucks?_ ”  Sam’s voice, a sharp whisper.

“What? That should be plenty to cover the wine, and the brussels sprouts. Mostly the wine.”

“Christ.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Rafe grabbed Sam’s hand, and pulled him eagerly toward the exit.

Sam laughed, feeling practically giddy. Rafe’s touch was electric, and all the weight from before was gone—there was only happiness and anticipation.

Rafe was impatient with the valet—who had no doubt been expecting a longer gap of time before they’d need their car back.

“It’s okay babe, we’ll get there.” Sam gave Rafe’s hand a squeeze.

“I know, but  _Sam_ , I can’t stop thinking about those onion rings.”

Sam practically growled, slipping his free hand around Rafe’s waist and tugging him close, leaning down to kiss him, stirring up a completely different sort of hunger. “Baby, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you more.”

* * *

 

There were plenty of open tables, but Sam and Rafe chose to sit at the bar again. Easily the best dressed in the joint, even without their jackets, which now both were draped over one of the unoccupied stools beside them.

Probably for the best—dinner had been messy.

“Here, you want another one?” Sam held out an onion ring, eyebrows raised in question.

“I couldn’t—” Rafe paused, reached across for Sam’s beer, took a drink to clear his throat. “—couldn’t possibly.”

Sam grinned, leaning closer, waiting until finally Rafe grabbed the onion ring and ate it.

“That’s what I thought.”

When Rafe reached for Sam’s beer again, Sam flagged down the bartender and ordered another, pushing his closer to Rafe.

“What made you think we could slog through  _two_  of those things?” Rafe asked, one elbow on the bar top, his chin resting on his hand.

Sam shrugged, eyeing the onion ring tower in question—their second helping. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, it’s a helluva lot less expensive than those, ah, bacon brussels sprouts things we never ate.”

“Mm.” Rafe scooted his chair closer, resting his head on Sam’s shoulder.

It was getting late, the bar was dark, the music piped through the speakers was just the right volume. Sam threw an arm over Rafe’s shoulders, leaned his cheek against the top of Rafe’s head.

“You tired, baby?”

“Mm.”

Sam glanced at their reflection in the mirror behind the bar—Sam had undone the top few buttons of his dress shirt, and Rafe had loosened his tie. Rafe reached up, half blind between his heavy lids and the low light, tangling fingers with the hand currently resting on his shoulder.

“Thank you.” Rafe’s voice was quiet, and he had to shift his head, angle himself toward Sam’s ear to be heard.

“For what?”

“For making reservations. For breaking reservations. For that ridiculous mess of a hamburger, and for too many onion rings.”

Sam gave Rafe’s hand a squeeze. “Welcome.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Rafe nuzzled closer, then straightened again to finish off the rest of Sam’s beer.

“We should come here more often,” he muttered, his lips still against the rim of the glass.

“Remember the first time?” Sam angled to face Rafe, eyes bright as he pressed his thumb to Rafe’s bottom lip, wiped away a few stray crumbs from the onion ring.

“You mean with the burger?” Rafe’s eyes closed to the touch.

“Nope, before that. We didn’t eat the first time.”

Rafe glanced up at Sam, his brows furrowed. Sam could practically see his wheels turning.

“You don’t remember.”

Rafe shook his head. “I guess I don’t.”

Sam stood, laid a hand on Rafe’s shoulder when he saw Rafe begin to stand as well, thinking Sam was ready to go. “Nah, don’t move. You’re perfect right there.”

Rafe raised a brow as Sam moved behind him, leaned over him, his arms slipping under Rafe’s to hug his chest, and his chin on Rafe’s shoulder.

“See over there?”

Rafe let Sam direct his attention, one of the small booths along the back wall, almost in the corner.

“Yeah?”

Sam tilted his head, pressed his lips to Rafe’s ear, quick—almost subtle. And then, he whispered.

_“Over there is where you told me I smelled so good it got you hard—right before you stuck your hand down your pants.”_

“What!”

Sam laughed, straightened. “Be right back.”

“Wait—Sam!  _What?_ ”

Rafe stared at himself in the mirror while Sam was in the mens room, searching—mentally sifting through everything he could think of, but he kept coming up empty.

He didn’t even notice when Sam returned, not until he felt Sam’s lips against his ear again, and then he jumped.

“ _Shit!_ ”

Sam grinned. “Miss me?”

“Hardly.” Rafe rolled his eyes even as he smirked.

“It’s buggin’ you, huh?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Sam opened his mouth, but Rafe silence him with a finger against his lips. “Save it.”

Sam stepped back, made room for Rafe to slip between the bar stools. “Where—”

“That opening I went through, it’s just a little ways down, second door on the left.”

“Thanks.”

Rafe shoved his hands in his pockets and headed towards the restroom, slowing his pace momentarily and eyeing the empty booth as he got closer.

_There’s no way I—_

_No, surely not…_

Rafe glanced over his shoulder, saw Sam watching him, a big shit-eating grin on his face, and he shot Sam the finger before he ducked down the hall.

_Asshole._

_But he does smell good, though—_

Rafe paused at the bathroom door, tilting his head. This was familiar, even if the booth wasn’t.

_Of course it’s familiar, it’s the bathroom, I’m sure I—_

Rafe pushed the door open, froze.

His eyes narrowed in the cool fluorescent light, dim thanks to one long halogen bulb being out. Nondescript, like any other bar bathroom—a bit of writing on the wall, soap on the floor beneath the automatic dispenser. Untidy, but not filthy. His eyes found the sink, and there was a flash of…something—

_—something cold, hard against his back. Bare skin. Unsteady limbs. Something hurt, an ache, but Sam’s hands, Sam would help, Sam always could, and always did. And his hands were so strong, and he was warm, so warm pressed between Rafe’s thighs—_

“Oh my god.”

Rafe didn’t have to look in the mirror to know he was blushing—he didn’t have to look at it to remember the feel of it against his back, and he didn’t have to look at the sink again to remember the way it dug into his back as Sam thrust against him.

He felt heat, like a wave, rushing over him, through him.

He took care of business in a hurry, emptied his bladder and washed his hands and marched himself right back to Sam, who was equally startled by his return.

“Hey, they asked if we were done and I thought we were, so I let ‘em take the rest of the— Ah…Rafe?”

Rafe’s eyes were dark, heated. His breathing was a bit slower, deeper—Sam was confused; he knew what the look in Rafe’s eyes meant on it’s own, but the breathing, that was something Rafe usually did when trying to calm himself down, and Sam immediately worried that he’d gotten a call or a text from work—something inconvenient.

Rafe didn’t respond the first time, not in words, so Sam tried again. “…Rafe?”

“We had sex in the bathroom.”

It was Sam’s turn to blush, though his smile widened. “Yeah.”

“You fucked me against the sink.”

Sam licked his lips. He remembered that particular encounter most vividly. “That’s right.”

Rafe pressed his lips together tight, eyeing Sam shamelessly, and Sam felt the intensity of his gaze as if it were it’s own sort of touch. When Rafe’s lips parted and he let out a soft sigh, Sam stood.

“Lemme take you home.”

Rafe laughed. “It’s not a pick-up line if we live together.”

“I don’t gotta pick you up if I’m already bangin’ ya.” A wolfish grin as Sam grabbed Rafe by the hip, tugged him close.

Rafe groaned. “Touché.”

“C’mon, let’s get the hell outta here.”

“Mm.” Rafe grabbed both of their jackets, and took Sam’s arm when it was offered.

* * *

 

They drove home with the windows down, the radio loud, and Sam was singing. He kept one hand on Rafe’s thigh, high up, and Rafe kept one of his hands on Sam’s.

And when they got home, and Sam led Rafe upstairs, after they got ready for bed and met again beneath the sheets, the last coherent thought Rafe had was how much nicer their room was than that bathroom at the bar, how much better the mattress felt against his back than the hard porcelain of the sink— _so much warmer, and softer and_ —

—and then Sam was on him, and the room filled with a lazy medley of sighs, of gasps, of moans. A heady clash of lips, and skin, and tangled limbs. Sam knew just how to isolate that pleasure, draw it up and over and out, knew just how to keep Rafe riding high until he thought he might never see straight again.

But Rafe did the same for Sam, though he didn’t always realize—it was the roll of his hips, and the tight grip of his fingers. It was Rafe, open and undone. It was the shake in his thighs and that beautiful crescendo, inside and out—his body responding with increasing intensity, and his voice, rougher and more breathless all at once.

And when it was over, it felt like falling back to earth. A collapse.

Sam struggled to find the will to roll off Rafe, and Rafe struggled with the will to let him. Eventually, both succeeded. 

“You gotta get up early tomorrow?”

“All week.” Rafe shifted closer. “Or don’t you remember?”

Sam chuckled, wrapped an arm around him. “Obviously not.”

Rafe stretched, settled in, sighed when Sam pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I did pretty good, huh?”

“Mm.” Rafe closed his eyes.

“Hey, maybe we should go to dive bars for date night more often.” Sam yawned.

It was dark, but Sam didn’t need to see to know that Rafe was smiling.

“Don’t push your luck, Sam.”


End file.
